Awooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Synthetic Species. 850 words, 4 minute read. With Gemini.
The recycled air in the presentation room tasted metallic, thick with the scent of floor polish and expensive cologne battling the sheer mass of human bodies. Stage lights beat down, turning the moisture on Greg Hanson’s upper lip instantly slick. He subtly dabbed it with a knuckle, glancing at the Colossal logo watermarked on the podium’s frosted glass front – ubiquitous, inescapable. He felt less like a pioneering scientist and more like a component, polished and presented. Beyond the glare, the press waited – a restless organism of shifting bodies, flashing lenses, and the low hum of recording devices.
A memory flickered, unbidden: one of the surrogate mothers, a standard gray wolf genetically augmented to carry the pups, whining low in her throat weeks ago, backing away from the feeding bowl after the pups had eaten, her posture one of deep, instinctual fear he’d dismissed at the time as hormonal anomaly. The image dissolved as Anya Sharma appeared, silent as a pressure drop. Her eyes, missing nothing, scanned his appearance.
"Deep breaths, Greg," she instructed, her voice a low frequency designed to cut through noise. She reached out and adjusted his tie with quick, impersonal efficiency. "The pre-market futures spiked three points just on the rumor of success. Deliver the narrative. Pioneer. De-extinction. Game-changer." She tapped her tablet. "Board wants a Q2 projection forecast based on public reaction by end of day. No pressure."
Greg nodded, the knot in his stomach tightening. "Stitching ghosts, Anya. Let's hope they don't rattle their chains too loud." He tried for a wry tone, but it came out thin.
"Just keep them behind the glass," she replied, her lips forming the barest approximation of a smile. "That's containment's problem." She vanished.
He gripped the podium, the smooth wood cool under his damp palms. "Good morning." The amplification stole the tremble from his voice. "I'm Dr. Greg Hanson." He paused, letting the weight of his association with Colossal settle. "For millennia, extinction has been a one-way street. A finality written in stone and fossil records. We've studied these endings. Today..." He looked up, meeting the sea of lenses. "...we explore a different path."
He gestured to the screen behind him. It bloomed with a swirling visualization of gene editing – CRISPR slicing, inserting ancient sequences into modern DNA strands. "We didn't just read the code of Canis dirus," he explained, consciously choosing the more dramatic, marketable term over the technically precise 'phenotypically-influenced hybrid'. "We used it as a scaffold. We identified key developmental triggers, growth factors, osteogenic markers… weaving fragments of the past into a viable Canis lupus genome." He forced himself not to mention the unexpected methylation patterns observed late in gestation, the ones the models couldn't fully predict. 'Acceptable deviation,' the internal report called it.
"We call it," he continued, hitting the key phrase, "Genetic Resurrection. De-extinction."
He saw the ripple effect – frantic typing, raised eyebrows. Someone in the front row, a reporter known for his aggressive business takes, muttered loudly enough to be heard, "Bet the IPO will go through the roof."
Greg ignored it, signaling stage right. The panel hissed upward. The air stirred, carrying that faint, sharp, musky scent again. Silence descended, heavy and absolute.
There they were. Romulus and Remus. Larger than wolf pups, built with a density that seemed to pull the eye. Their charcoal fur absorbed the light, making them look like holes cut in the faux-tundra background. They sat utterly still, heads erect, watching the watchers. No playful nips, no clumsy tumbles, none of the chaotic energy of youth. He remembered a tech noting they rarely vocalized, their stillness during observation periods unnerving even the seasoned handlers.
"Behold," Greg announced, a surge of genuine, complex pride momentarily overriding the unease, "the Dire Wolf. Returned."
Near the barrier, Dave gripped his camera. Been there, filmed that – corporate hubris was practically its own beat. He zoomed, framing Romulus. Same job, different billionaire playing God. Then the pup’s head turned fractionally, and its eyes found his lens.
Pale amber, almost opaque. Dave felt a sudden, dizzying drop in his stomach, like missing a step in the dark. These weren't animal eyes as he understood them. There was no fear, no curiosity, no recognition of him as anything other than perhaps… movement? Or meat? It was the utterly detached, calculating gaze of something that operated on timescales and imperatives dredged up from a forgotten epoch. A coldness radiated from that stare, a primal understanding of violence and necessity that felt like ice water injected into his veins. He saw his own reflection miniaturized in that ancient eye for a split second before realizing there was no reflection, just depth.
His knuckles were white on the camera grip. He took an involuntary step back, bumping slightly against the person behind him. The pup didn't react. Its gaze remained fixed, ancient and appraising, a living embodiment of unforeseen consequences now quietly observing the world that had presumed to resurrect it. The silence stretched, broken only by the frantic clicking of cameras capturing the dawn of Colossal's new age.